Trust
by who is sabrina
Summary: The ways in which the agents realize that they trust each other. Now a collection of one-shots. Disclaimer: I don't own The Man From U.N.C.L.E. [Ch 10: The Handcuffs. Gaby and Illya's mission goes smoothly. Their walk home? Not so much.]
1. The Couch

It happened by degrees. It was a gradual thing, so slow that it was hardly noticeable at all.

It started, Napoleon later surmised, with the reflective surfaces. He wasn't sure how, or where, or when, but at some point he had stopped checking them. No longer did he look at small mirrors and polished teapots and chrome surfaces to glimpse the Russian agent's movements behind his back. No more tilting mirrors to odd angles that were perfect for surveillance. No more quick, paranoid glances with finely-tuned peripheral vision. No; somewhere along the way, those had stopped.

The bugs and the trackers, of course, never had. But they were different now. No longer placed out of suspicion, but rather for the sole purpose of ensuring his partner's safety (just like the Russian trackers still safely nestled into his own boots).

Other things were different, too - subtle changes that the American agent hadn't even recognized before. The absence of the tension he had once felt while in Illya's presence. The slow change of the constant banter between them - things originally meant as slights were now, oddly enough, terms of endearment - nicknames. Insults that were once meant sincerely were now said in jest ("Absolutely hated working with you, Peril.").

And on top of all this, even more telling was the slow, creeping change in Napoleon's working style. So used to working alone, the concept of reliance on a partner had been an uncomfortable one for the American spy. And yet somehow, said reliance had crept into his working style even without his permission. He grew used to the imposing presence at his back as he deftly picked lock after lock. He no longer strained to hear approaching footsteps as well as the _click_ of the lock; he knew without checking that Illya was keeping a lookout. In a firefight, he became accustomed to the feel of someone else's back against his, rather than the cold hard side of a wall. And when he ran between two points of shelter, he didn't have to tell the Russian agent to cover him; it was already a given.

Yes - in hindsight, all the signs were there. Napoleon could never say when exactly it happened, but it had happened nonetheless. Napoleon Solo trusted Illya Kuryakin. The American agent knew this perfectly well. But for Illya, apparently, it had been a bit of a surprise.

 **...**

Bucket of ice in hand, Illya Kuryakin strode down the hallway of the hotel he and Solo were currently staying in. He turned right, heavy footsteps muffled on the soft red carpet, and headed towards his room, where he and Solo had been (somewhat tiredly) celebrating the successful completion of their most recent mission. Reaching the door, the Russian pushed it open and entered the room - a sprawling den of plush couches and expensive furniture, with large wooden doors to the right that opened onto the bedroom. The balcony doors at the back of the room were open partially, letting the evening breeze sweep quietly inside. At least Waverly was never stingy about their lodgings, Illya mused as he set the ice bucket on a nearby table. Swinging the room door shut behind him, he continued on into the middle of the room, and then stopped short in surprise.

Napoleon Solo was sprawled across the nearest couch, eyes closed, half-finished drink abandoned on the table. For a second, Illya wondered if something was wrong with the American agent. But the thought vanished immediately; the gentle rise and fall of the American's chest spoke clearly enough for his well-being, not to mention the fact that neither spy had been injured at all on their mission (a rare victory). And the possibility of a laced drink was ruled out immediately as well; Illya had had a glass, too. Frowning slightly, the Russian agent moved forward.

"Cowboy?" he asked, hesitantly. The note of confusion was evident in his voice. "Something wrong?" The American shifted slightly, but otherwise made no acknowledgement. Frown deepening, Illya strode to the couch and tapped his partner's shoulder. "Solo!" he said. The former thief made no move at all this time, but before Illya could do anything else, the American spoke up.

"Something the matter, Peril?" he asked calmly, eyes still closed, posture still relaxed. A small wave of relief ran through Illya at the confirmation that the American was indeed all right, but now the Russian's confusion only deepened.

"Everything's fine," Illya responded. "But... what are you doing?" he asked. This time, Solo opened one eye, watching Illya amusedly.

"It's called sleep," he informed him. "It's this strange thing that human beings need. You may have heard of it." Illya rolled his eyes as the American closed his own once more. And he laid there, perfectly relaxed, completely content, and utterly... vulnerable. It was _strange_ , Illya thought, still frowning. To be so open to attack like that. It went against everything he - and doubtless Napoleon, too - had ever been taught about spying. You must remain alert. You must be constantly vigilant. And, above all, you must _never_ let your guard down. And yet here was Napoleon Solo, sleeping calmly in front of a spy. Likely sensing Illya's continued attention, the American agent opened both eyes this time, curiously taking in Illya's troubled expression.

"What's wrong?" he asked. Illya paused, wondering how best to express just how defenseless the American agent was allowing himself to be. Finally, Illya just shrugged.

"I could've snapped your neck," he said bluntly. But the American only grinned. He closed his eyes and settled back into the couch, sinking deeper into its cushions. He flung one arm carelessly over the back of the couch, while the other draped limply over the side, fingers inches from the thick carpet. He was completely unprotected, and he _knew_ it, yet still he remained entirely unconcerned. It _bothered_ Illya. How could he be so untroubled? It's not like he didn't care for his own safety; Illya knew that Napoleon Solo was a careful man. But this... this was not careful. And it made no sense.

"Did you hear me?" Illya asked finally, perturbed. "I told you, I could snap your neck." Again, the American only smiled.

"I know," he said simply. "But you won't."

Illya was stunned into silence. The implications of those words crashed over him in one shattering epiphany that hit him like a ton of bricks. The American spy was content to be so unguarded simply because he felt he didn't _need_ to have his guard up. He didn't need to be constantly vigilant. He didn't need to track the Russian's movements. He didn't feel uneasy, or tense, or uncertain. So yes, Illya could quite easily snap the American's neck in two. But he wouldn't. And his partner _knew_ he wouldn't.

The truth was obvious now: Napoleon Solo _trusted_ Illya Kuryakin.

It was weird. It was a little crazy. The idea that someone could place - _had_ placed - their trust in Illya was an idea that was totally foreign to the Russian. This concept of trust was so different from anything he had experienced before. Amazed, Illya sank quietly into a nearby armchair and watched as his American partner slept on, vulnerable and yet perfectly at ease.

Yes, the feeling of having someone's trust was utterly strange. But, Illya realized as the night breeze blew through the balcony doors, he found that he rather liked it.


	2. The Vodka

"Finally," Napoleon muttered as he slid the hidden compartment on the side of the desk open. As he had expected, a small metal safe awaited within. "Found it," he said, a little louder. Illya abandoned his careful inspection of the bookshelf and hurried over.

"Finally," he grumbled. "It should not have been that hard to find. This is a small room," he frowned, glancing around. Indeed, the room they had snuck into was very small, but packed rather tightly with expensive furniture, rare books, and antique collections. The dim lighting in the room had not helped their search either, nor had the distracting noises of the party continuing on down the hall. It had taken longer than it should have, but still they had found it. Finally. "Well, Cowboy, you had better..." But Illya trailed off into silence, and Napoleon slid the compartment closed in equal silence. Footsteps. There were footsteps approaching. The Russian growled quietly and scanned the room for places to hide; if they were caught here, the game was up. But the room was full, every nook and cranny bulging with stuff.

"Nowhere to hide," Solo remarked disappointedly, reaching the same conclusion. He looked to Illya, who shrugged, and then started towards the door, where the footsteps were steadily approaching. He raised himself to his full, considerable height, and then flexed his muscles, ready to-

"Wait," the American blurted. Curious, Illya turned to see his partner reaching purposefully into the nearby liquor cabinet. The Russian was at the American's side in two strides.

"What are you-"

"Shhh," Solo whispered, pulling out a bottle of vodka and unscrewing the cap. He took a quick sip, and then proceeded to splash the rest of the bottle methodically onto Illya's clothes.

"Hey!" the Russian protested in an angry whisper, but his partner ignored him, instead carefully ruffling up his own clothes. His jaw was firmly set, his eyes calculating, and Illya relented. He knew that expression. The American had a plan.

"Lay down," Solo instructed quietly, as the footsteps reached the doorway. "Close your eyes." Illya glared at his partner reproachfully, but dropped to the floor nonetheless. And in the second between Illya feigning sleep and the guard bursting through the doorway, Napoleon Solo had a sudden insight.

 _Lay down_ , he had told Illya. _Close your eyes._ And, amazingly, the Russian had done just that. No questions or demanding to know his plan. No arguments or protests. Not even a second's hesitation. And that, the American realized, could only mean one thing. Illya Kuryakin trusted him. A wide, smug smile spread across Solo's face just as the doorknob turned, and by the time the guard barged into the room, Napoleon's giddiness was not entirely an act.

"Hi, there!" Napoleon greeted immediately. It stopped the guard short, who took in the smiling, disheveled man before him, the clearly unconscious man on the floor, and the pervasive smell of alcohol that seemed to fill the room.

"You're not supposed to be here," the guard remarked, his confusion at the scene leaking into his voice, and making the statement sound like a question. Solo only laughed, like it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. This, of course, did nothing for the guard's comprehension.

"Oh man, do I have something for you!" Solo cried happily, stumbling across the room toward the guard (Solo noted that the man took a step back). "You work for Mr. Gruber, right? The host of this par- _hic!_ \- party?"

"That's right," the guard affirmed, glancing warily at the man on the floor, then back to the drunk now directly in front of him.

"Lemme tell you," Napoleon began, slurring his words. "I made a bet with Mr. Gruber," he laughed. "I did. I made a bet that _this_ man," he said, pointing enthusiastically in Illya's general direction, "could not get drunk," he proclaimed proudly. "I mean, look at 'im! He's a giant." The guard glanced once again at the body on the floor, and by the slight widening of his eyes, Solo figured that the other man agreed. "But Mr. Gruber - the genius that he is - took me up on that bet! He told me where the good stuff was," the American explained, gesturing to the liquor cabinet, whose door still hung open precariously. "And you know what? It worked. That man - _hic!_ \- is drunk." Solo shook his head in pretend amazement, eyes wide and just a little unfocused. "So I need you to take this to Mr. Gruber." So saying, Napoleon pulled out his wallet and clumsily retrieved some cash, pushing it into the guard's hands. "Give him that, and tell him he won our bet."

"Very good, sir," the guard agreed reluctantly, frowning still. "But you are still not supposed to be here."

"Oh," Solo remarked, looking suddenly crestfallen. He looked pointedly to Illya's prone form and sighed. "Want to help me move him?" he asked the guard. "But I should warn you, he's kind of an angry drunk." Illya took the opportunity to growl quietly in his apparent sleep, a low, ominous sound that made the guard take several involuntary steps back. He glanced again at the open liquor cabinet.

"Well," he said. "I suppose if Mr. Gruber allowed you back here, it would be wrong of me to force you to leave."

"Hey, thanks," Napoleon grinned, slapping the guard on the shoulder in a friendly gesture that sent his supposedly-drunk self reeling. He grabbed onto the guard to stay upright, and then backed away when he had regained his balance, still grinning hugely. The guard, however, did not look amused.

"Good night," he said curtly, folding the money neatly in one hand, and grabbing the doorknob with the other. With one last disapproving stare, the guard shut the door behind him. His footsteps echoed down the hall, and then faded out of earshot. Napoleon moved back to the desk and slid the hidden compartment open once more, chuckling quietly.

"Nice acting," he commented as Illya stood up and joined him in front of the safe.

"You're buying me a new shirt," the Russian replied unhappily.

"Here, hang on to this," Napoleon told him, handing something over. Illya took it. It was the guard's security pass. "It's so easy to pickpocket people when they think you're incredibly drunk," Solo remarked cheerily, expertly twirling the dial on the safe. "At least now we can go out the back way."

"Good," Illya huffed. "As soon as the guard gets to Mr. Gruber, we'll be out of time."

"No, we won't."

"Of course we will. Mr. Gruber will have no idea what the guard is talking about. You never made a bet with-" But Illya stopped mid-sentence, suddenly remembering the earlier part of the evening.

 **…**

 _It was the perfect time to sneak into Gruber's office, Illya knew. But, irritatingly, his partner had vanished. Somehow, Napoleon had snuck off in the crowd of people at the enormous party, and now Illya had no clue where he was. Sighing, he moved into a quiet corner and began to scan the crowd. He was nearly ready to give up when he finally found the American. He was standing near the wall, conversing easily with... Mr. Gruber himself. With an exasperated sigh, he approached the two men, striding up just as the two shook hands meaningfully._

 _"Ah, there you are," Napoleon remarked quickly. "I've been looking everywhere." Illya suppressed a growl. "Excuse us, Mr. Gruber," Solo continued. "It was a pleasure," he grinned. And then the two spies headed off._

 _"What was that, Cowboy?" Illya admonished as soon as they were out of earshot. "I thought we were supposed to keep a low profile," he reminded the American pointedly._

 _"Hm. Waverly_ did _say that, didn't he?" Solo mused. "But you know, for a murderous arms dealer, he's really a great guy."_

 ** _…_**

"I saw you shake hands with Gruber," Illya remembered. "You really did make a bet with him?"

"Of course I did, Peril," Solo smirked. "So when the guard goes up to him, hands him some money, and says that an American asked to inform that he won their bet-"

"Gruber will confirm your story. Without even knowing," Illya finished, inwardly amazed at his partner's shrewdness. Napoleon nodded, and just then, a rewarding _click_ told them that the safe was now open.

"Hang on," Illya wondered. "Gruber did not see me until after you made your bet. So what did you really bet him?"

"He claimed he had the best security in the country. I told him any security has its flaws, but he seemed to think his was perfect. He bet that I couldn't find a single flaw in his security if I tried," Solo explained, swinging the safe door open with absurd ease. He reached in, grabbed the files they were tasked to retrieve, and then shut the safe door, re-locking it. "I guess I lost," Solo grinned mischievously, sliding the files securely into his jacket. He strode to the door, held it open for the Russian, and shook his head in mock disappointment. "His security is just _flawless_."


	3. The Film Case

The mission had started beautifully, which, in hindsight, might have been an indicator that things were soon to go quite horribly south. Illya and Napoleon had snuck into the heavily-guarded building without a single complication. They had retrieved the precious and highly-classified roll of film even faster than they had planned. They had even tampered with several computers for good measure. Of course it had gone too well to last.

So now, with his expression carefully inscrutable, Illya watched as Kingston (the man from whom they had attempted to steal) repeatedly sunk his steel-toed shoe into Napoleon's stomach. The Russian's arms were starting to go numb from the vice-like grip of the guard behind him, and he felt a sudden rush of irritation; why did they always pick Solo for these things?

Finally, Kingston let up, and stood back to smile at the American agent now gingerly picking himself up off the floor. Then he picked up a pistol from the nearest table, twirled it like something out of an old western picture, and then slammed the handle fiercely into Napoleon's temple. It was a bit harder for Illya to keep his expression blank now. As it was, he tensed; the guard holding him tightened his grip in response.

"Well?" Kingston asked, crouching down before Napoleon. He grabbed the front of Solo's shirt in a fist, held the American at eye level. "Had enough yet?" he growled. Solo said nothing. Kingston laughed and gestured to a nearby guard, who promptly handed over a glistening silver knife. He took two steps toward the American, and then-

"Okay, okay!"

And now Illya was sure his mask had slipped; he was utterly incapable of concealing the blatant surprise he was feeling. If he had not seen it for himself, he never would have believed that that desperate cry had come from his partner.

"Here," Napoleon continued, voice strained and broken, and he reached a shaking hand into the inside of his jacket. He pulled out a black film case - the very reason for their mission - and then tossed it away from him. It skidded across the floor and stopped at Kingston's feet. "Take it," Napoleon murmured. "Just... let us go." And now there was no mistaking the pleading tone in his voice. Illya, for his part, could only stare, feeling like he had somehow fallen into an alternate universe. The plea in Solo's voice, the desperation, the shaking hands, the crumpled posture - none of it matched at all with the American Illya had come to know.

But then, as Kingston bent down to pick up the surrendered case of film, Illya had a sudden insight. Everything made sense - clicked into place like a completed puzzle - and the Russian almost laughed. If this situation had happened several months ago, Illya would've been upset. Angry. Infuriated, even. How dare the American give into cowardice and willingly forfeit their mission? But now... Illya understood. And although Napoleon remained desperate and shame-faced upon the ground, and Kingston was opening the film case with a smug smile, Illya Kuryakin knew beyond a doubt that his American partner had _not_ given into cowardice, and _of course_ would never willingly forfeit their mission. Illya trusted him. Not to mention, the Russian had come to understand one immutable truth about the former thief: Napoleon Solo had an _endless_ supply of tricks up his sleeves.

And so, Illya watched as Kingston looked into the film case, and carefully pulled out a roll of film.

"Thank you," Kingston told Solo, with a mocking smile. The Russian agent had another second's glimpse of Kingston's satisfied expression, and then-

 _Boom!_ In a blinding flash and an almighty roar, the room exploded.

Illya came to with a gasp and a cough. Dust was still settling heavily around the room, so Illya was sure he had only been out for mere seconds. The guard that had previously held him was still unconscious on the ground, and so, Illya was pleased to note, were most of the other guards. Carefully, the Russian stood up and brushed small chunks of ceiling off his clothes. He spared no glance at what was sure to be particularly gruesome remnants of Kingston, and instead peered through the swirling smoke for his partner. There - a moving figure. He stumbled towards it, hoping it was Solo.

His vision cleared as he moved closer, and sure enough, there was Napoleon, already stumbling to his feet. He, too, was brushing debris off his ever-fancy and expensive clothes, and looked rather upset about their undeniable ruin; Illya supposed this was a good thing.

"Solo!" he called, and the American looked up. He squinted through the smoke for a moment before seeming to recognize his partner, and then he stepped cautiously over feebly-stirring bodies and chunks of debris to meet Illya.

"You alright, Cowboy?" the Russian asked immediately, as soon as Napoleon reached him.

"Yeah, yeah," Solo replied quickly, waving off Illya's concern with a flick of a hand - a hand that was no longer shaking in the slightest. In fact, Solo's whole demeanor had changed. He was standing with his unerring posture and easy confidence, and straightening his clothes in a businesslike fashion, cool and calm. Illya made a mental note to remember that Napoleon was a _highly_ skilled actor.

"Let's get out of here already," the American said after a moment, and together, he and Illya maneuvered through the doorway, grabbing weapons from among the rubble, and then broke into a run down a long hallway. Several turns and corridors later, they figured they were far away enough from the explosion to avoid the hordes of guards undeniably swarming towards that area. Simultaneously, they slowed to a quick walk.

"Ugh, I hate that ringing in your ears after an explosion," Solo complained lightly. But Illya was not about to engage in idle small talk; he was still trying to piece together exactly what had happened.

"You gave Kingston a fake film," Illya said. It wasn't really a question, but Napoleon nodded anyway.

"Uh-huh."

"But that was his film case," the Russian noted, remembering the black case in question.

"Yep," Napoleon agreed. "His film case, our film." The American reached into his now-tattered jacket and pulled out a bright blue film case. " _Our_ film case," he explained, " _his_ film."

"You swapped them out," Illya nodded. Of course he had; the American was one walking, talking show of misdirection and sleight-of-hand.

"And added a little surprise," Solo grinned.

"That explosive - you have another one?"

"Yeah, why?"

"We should use it," Illya suggested. "We can stop by the room with the fuse boxes on the way out, take out their electricity so they do not catch us while we leave the property."

"Sounds good to me," Solo agreed, and they turned onto another corridor, heading for the fuse boxes. A couple more hallways, and the room they wanted was in sight. Thankfully, they hadn't run into a single guard; they must still be mostly preoccupied with the explosion.

Reaching the door, the two agents stood side by side, drawing dusty but nonetheless functional guns. A shared glance, a nod, and then Illya kicked the door open with a resounding crash. The two burst through, ready to fire, scanning the room carefully, but it, like the rest of the building, was quite empty.

Napoleon put his gun away and advanced toward the fuse boxes. Illya followed, gun still out, keeping watch. A question occurred to him.

"What film did you put in there, anyway?"

"Uh, not sure," Solo shrugged unconcernedly. "I think it might've been the negatives from all those photos Gaby shot of the Grecian coast." Illya laughed, remembering Gaby's incessant gushing about the beautiful scenery.

"She won't be pleased with you," the Russian warned. But Solo only laughed quietly.

"Ah, she's never pleased with me."

They reached the fuse boxes, which looked like they hadn't been accessed in months, or even years. A row of dingy old desks was pushed up in front of them, and piles of dusty papers were stacked precariously upon these desks. Solo shrugged and knelt on the dirty floor, pulling a small explosive from a concealed pocket.

"How much time does that one have?" Illya asked, remembering the short time on the previous one.

"Oh, this one is longer," Solo explained. "Several minutes. We'll have plenty of time to get out."

"Good," Illya said. He watched as Napoleon got on all fours and crawled beneath one of the desks to reach one of the fuse boxes.

"So, Peril, did you think I really gave it to him?" Solo asked conversationally, as he stuck the small explosive to the grimy metal. Although the American was hidden by the desk, Illya could hear the wry grin in his voice.

"No," Illya told him truthfully. "I trusted you," he explained, turning to scan the surrounding darkness for approaching figures. A small _thud_ made him look back around; Napoleon had banged his head against the bottom of the desk in his hurry to straighten up, and was staring, shocked, at Illya. Several old papers fluttered to the ground.

"What did you say?" the American asked, utterly bewildered. Illya turned back to the empty room to hide his embarrassment. Had he really just admitted that out loud? He sighed exasperatedly, but his partner remained silent behind him. Rolling his eyes, the Russian looked back to find Napoleon in the exact same position, still watching Illya disbelievingly. Despite the explosive now ticking steadily away, he seemed perfectly willing to remain there until Illya repeated himself.

 _Tick. Tick. Tick._ Illya supposed, just this once, there was no harm in admitting it.

"I trust you," he repeated sincerely, meeting eyes with the American.

Instantaneously, a wide grin began to spread across Napoleon's face; it took everything the Russian had to hold in a laugh.

"Shut up," he said instead.

"I didn't say anything," Napoleon protested, still grinning hugely.

"Yes," Illya agreed with a curt nod. "Why don't we keep it that way?" And he turned and stalked out the nearest door, leaving an immoderately cheery Napoleon laughing in his wake.


	4. The Gun

**(A/N: Originally, this was supposed to be a three-parter, but because of all the wonderful feedback in the way of favorites, follows, and reviews, I've decided to continue this as a collection of one-shots. Thanks, readers! Thank you for favoriting and/or following! And of course, a big hearty THANK YOU to all the reviewers. You are the reason I've decided to continue. And so, without further ado, chapter four: The Gun.)**

Heavy footsteps, several pairs of them. The quiet humming of the water heater. Gaby's quiet breaths. Every sound seemed weirdly amplified to Napoleon, their surroundings pressing in on him in a confusing wave of senses. The cold concrete floor beneath them. The creaking of the wooden support beams. The reassuring metal of a gun in one hand. Hot, sticky blood against the palm of the other. Oh, right. The blood.

Shaking his head to clear his mind, the American agent lifted his hand to inspect the wound on his leg. Still bleeding, but not life-threatening. At least there was that. Everything else seemed to be against them, what with him and Gaby hidden behind a water heater in a neglected basement with several guards on their tail, and somehow left with only one gun between the two of them.

Gaby was peering around their hiding spot, and she moved back with a quiet curse in German, followed by another in Russian; Solo wondered briefly if Illya had taught her that one.

"It doesn't look good," she told him in a whisper. Her eyes flicked over the wound in his leg and the gun in his hand. Two agents, minus one agent, plus one gun and several pursuing guards. Maybe that wasn't a real equation, but Napoleon was pretty sure it equalled disaster. The footsteps drew nearer, slow and deliberate. They were searching the room, and it wouldn't take them very long to finish.

"Give me the gun," Gaby whispered urgently.

"What?"

"If we stay here, they will find us eventually, and then it's over. But if you give me the gun, I can sneak out now, and take them out before they get to you. It will leave you defenseless," she admitted blatantly. "But I _won't_ let them reach this spot." So saying, she held out her hand expectantly. "Trust me," she breathed.

Ah, but there was the problem. Trust her? In a sudden, dreadful instant, Napoleon realized that he didn't. Of course, he knew she was an extremely capable agent, sufficiently adept at both shooting and stealth to be able to pull this off - in theory. But, over the course of their time together, Napoleon noted that they hadn't actually had that much time together. On missions, he was mostly paired with Illya, or else worked alone while Illya and Gaby were paired. His missions with Gaby had been relatively few, and even fewer had involved an actual, potentially-dangerous situation. Through no fault of her own, she simply hadn't had the _time_ to earn his trust.

Because that was how trust was built - slowly, steadily, over time. Rome wasn't built in a day, and all that. At least, that was how it had happened with Illya - a trust so creeping and stealthy that you never knew it was there until it pounced. But maybe - just maybe - it didn't have to be this way. In fact, she could earn his trust right here, right now, in this moment. What would happen if he blindly trusted, if he handed her the gun? She would either succeed and earn his trust unquestionably... or, she would _almost_ succeed, in which case, he'd be dead, and wouldn't need to worry about such silly things as trust anyway. It was a bit of a gamble, Napoleon knew, but it had been far too long since his last game of cards.

"Hey!" Gaby whispered sharply, hand waving in front of the other agent's face. Napoleon blinked. Her face came back into focus, eyebrows drawn together, hard eyes softened around the edges with something that seemed vaguely like concern. Huh. That was interesting. "Solo! You with me?"

"Yes, of course," he assured her, nodding. He placed their only gun securely in her hands. "Go," he said. Half a smile quirked the corners of Gaby's lips, and then she was gone.

It was fairly quick. Intermittent bursts of shooting that echoed around the room like a fireworks display. And then, quite abruptly, the shooting stopped. Now only one pair of footsteps remained - light, soft, unhurried. Napoleon was grinning by the time Gaby strolled around the corner. She grinned back, twirled the gun in a show-off kind of way, and then slid it securely into the holster at her belt.

"Ready to get out of here, Mr. Solo?" she asked, reaching down and helping him to his feet. She looped an arm around him, taking some of his weight to help him stand.

"After you, Miss Teller." She raised an eyebrow at him, her eyes lighting up with mischief, and he instantly regretted his choice of expression. Smirking, she took a deliberate step forward, ahead of him. The American lost his balance instantly, teetering precariously.

"Figuratively! Figuratively!" he amended, grabbing onto her shoulder to keep upright. She laughed, smoothly sliding back into place next to him.

"Together, then?" she asked.

"Together," he agreed. They walked toward the nearest exit, slow and awkward at first. But by the time they emerged onto the manicured lawn, their movements were surprisingly synchronized. They moved quietly through the wet grass, Napoleon's panting breaths misting up in the cold night air.

"You know," Gaby mused. "Together seems to be the best way to do things these days. Wouldn't you agree?" In response, Napoleon pulled the gun from her belt. She moved with him instinctively as he turned, and had only an instant to be curious, before- _bang!_ In the distance, a figure crumpled - a lone pursuing guard.

The American turned back to her, twirling the gun the same way she had, and then slid it back into its place at her belt. Gaby's previous words ran through Napoleon's mind once again, oddly a perfect sentiment in regards to the whole U.N.C.L.E. venture. _Together seems to be the best way to do things these days. Wouldn't you agree?_

He grinned smugly at her, and she rolled her eyes, absently readjusting her grip on him. They continued forward, and Napoleon nodded in the darkness.

"Indeed."


	5. The Razor

Gaby Teller enjoyed a great many things about her newfound career as a spy - the high stakes, the exotic places, the reliably-frequent rushes of adrenaline, and the mind-bending, double-crossing, triple-crossing _strategy_ of it all. It was _fun_ \- a kind of fun that car parts and machine oil had never been. And yet, her favorite moments were ones like these.

"Look up," Gaby chided with a smile, as Illya's gaze drifted to the mirror in front of him. His eyes locked with hers for the briefest of moments, and then snapped back up to the textured tiles of their hotel ceiling. "I can't give you a proper shave if you don't keep your head up." Illya smirked slightly, but wisely remained silent; Gaby was bringing the straight razor up to his neck for another go.

Hiding a smile, she leaned forward on the back of Illya's chair until her head was against his. The smell of his shaving cream filled her nostrils, and she wondered briefly if he could smell the shampoo in her hair just as strongly. But she was getting distracted. She had to do this right if Illya was going to let her do it again. Privately, she hoped this would become a regular occurrence.

Letting out a slow breath, Gaby looked into the mirror in front of them, and then ever so carefully traced a path up the Russians neck with the razor. The blade sung as she lifted it away. She sloshed it in a bowl of water, rinsing off the shaving cream and fine hairs.

"You're good at this," Illya remarked quietly. He was watching her in the mirror again. She rolled her eyes to cover her flush of pleasure.

"If you keep looking in that mirror, I'm never going to finish."

"Sorry," he said, but he was smiling still. He looked up to the ceiling, and Gaby ran the razor up his neck again. Halfway done, and not a single flaw. It was getting easier.

"Thank you for letting me do this," she told him, as she cleaned the blade. Perhaps it would seem ordinary and unremarkable for anyone else, but for Illya, it was anything but. He was literally allowing himself to be defenseless in front of another spy with a deadly weapon. If he had shouted to the world that he trusted her, it wouldn't have meant more.

He said nothing, possibly because he didn't have to, or maybe because Gaby had started shaving again. Either way, they finished the job in silence. She took a wet towel and cleaned his neck, and then stepped back to admire the job.

"Well?" she asked. "Am I hired as your personal barber?"

"I thought you already had a job."

"I do, actually. A very good one," Gaby smiled, sitting on his lap. He adjusted his position to better accommodate her.

For the second time that day, she felt a sudden rush of affection for their highly unlikely yet astonishingly capable team. For a chop shop girl, an easily-angered KGB agent, and a deceptive, light-fingered jailbird, they were impressive, even by Waverly's standards. Not to mention the unpredictable fact that they all got along beautifully. Coming out of their separate backgrounds of secrets, lies, and betrayal, they had somehow learned to trust each other - to lean on each other like old friends, or loyal family. Gaby loved the quiet moments in which this trust was blatantly obvious. And could she be blamed if she particularly loved the ones between herself and Illya?

Perhaps the only thing she loved more was their American partner's impeccable ability to tactfully disappear at the best of times. _Like now_ , she mused, as Illya picked her up and dropped her onto the nearest couch. She watched as he turned and began to clean the remnants of their shaving venture off of the hotel's antique vanity. She made a mental note to thank Solo later, after he returned.

Vanity successfully cleaned, the Russian tossed the towel into the laundry basket, and then advanced toward Gaby. She swung her legs over the arm of the couch, crossed them flirtatiously, and then-

 _Brrrring!_

The phone. Of course, it had to be the phone. Sighing, Gaby watched as Illya headed immediately for it. She could see the exact instant he switched into professional mode. Figuring she had better act professionally, too, she adjusted her position on the couch, and listened intently for the voice on the other end.

"Yes, sir," Illya replied. It was Waverly, then. "No movement so far. We are still waiting." Their boss was saying something else, but Gaby couldn't make out anything more than his light tone and classy accent. But she could see Illya's expression, and she frowned as Illya's features hardened into what was undeniably annoyance.

"Everything is fine here, sir," he informed him, although his expression said otherwise. A short comment from Waverly, and then Illya was replacing the phone on its hook.

"Where is he?" Illya grumbled, glaring at the door, and Gaby knew without asking that he was talking about Solo. The Russian strode the length of the room, and peered out behind the window curtains.

"I'm sure he'll be back soon," she placated, knowing Solo's uncanny knack for perfect timing. "Don't worry."

"I'm not worried," he snapped. "He can handle himself." But his fists were clenched at his sides. Gaby sighed, and crossed the room until she was standing directly behind him. She set a hand lightly on his shoulder, feeling the tension there.

"What did Waverly want?" she asked.

"Just checking in. He also wanted to know if we were lying low, like we were told." The edge of bitterness in his tone was unmistakable. Gaby stifled a laugh, glad that she was hidden behind him. It was just like Illya to fiercely adhere to his orders, and equally just like Solo to ignore them - or, as he would say, justifiably dodge them. She was amazed they hadn't killed each other ages ago.

"Illya, Napoleon knows his orders. I'm sure he won't get into anything." Illya opened his mouth to reply, and right on cue, the hotel door swung open. Solo strolled through, and eased it closed behind him. Illya was advancing towards him before he had even crossed the entryway.

"Where have you been?" Illya asked him angrily. Gaby noticed how Napoleon's gaze flicked almost imperceptibly to the Russian's fists. Checking how upset he was. Smart. "We're supposed to lie low," Illya reminded him.

"Excuse me," Solo began, raising his eyebrows in mock indignation, "are you insinuating that I willfully deviated from mission parameters?" Illya deflated partially, torn between exasperation and amusement. But Gaby laughed.

"Illya, what on earth would make you think something like _that_?" she asked him, playing along with Solo's humor. "Napoleon Solo is the epitome of a rule-following agent," she declared seriously.

Even Illya had to laugh at that.

"Of course I am," Solo agreed, straightening his tie cockily. "Soldier, remember?" he grinned.

"And art thief," Gaby added pointedly. Napoleon smiled at her, shaking his head and dismissing the fact with a wave of his hand.

"Details."


	6. The Getaway

Napoleon Solo awoke slowly and hazily, which had never been a good sign. Dimly aware of this, he kept his eyes closed and body still, wanting to make some sense of the situation first.

The low rumbling of a car engine. A padded seat beneath him, and a headrest behind his head. A metal door handle was digging into his side. All of this combined with the tell-tale jostling of the vehicle informed Napoleon that he was in the passenger seat of a car that was driving down a dirt road. So, the million dollar question: who was the driver? Solo listened intently for any indication, but the driver was utterly silent. The American agent was loath to give away the fact that he was awake, but clearly, he wasn't going to learn anything useful by continuing to feign unconsciousness.

Reluctantly, Napoleon opened his eyes and turned his head to get a look at the driver. Instantly, stars exploded in his field of vision, and a fierce pain pulsed in the back of his head.

"Ugh, big mistake," he groaned, doubling over, eyes shut tight against the pain.

"I told you to lie still," chided the unmistakable, heavily-accented tones of Illya Kuryakin. "Not that you would remember," he added. Slowly, Napoleon sat up and blinked the remaining stars out of his vision. He and Illya were indeed trundling down a dirt road, but the darkness of the night and the lack of street lights told him little about their location.

"You have a concussion," the Russian told him. "That's why you're confused." Illya's voice was slightly clipped, as if irritated, or annoyed. His grip on the steering wheel and the tautness of his jaw confirmed this. But there was some other emotion that Solo couldn't quite put his finger on. There was a slight crinkle between Illya's eyebrows as they were drawn together. One of his hands on the steering wheel relaxed from the tight grip in favor of tapping restlessly. Not his angry, red-alert tapping, but more of a nervous twitch. _Ah, yes. Nervous._ The Russian was nervous. Said agent suddenly seemed to realize he was being watched.

"What?" he asked, looking over at Solo. His light eyes flicked up and down the American's form - a quick check. _Hm. Not nervous, then. Worried._ Napoleon's lack of a reply seemed to exacerbate this; his fingers tapped faster. Some part of Solo recognized that he should make conversation as an indication of his well-being. But the relentless pulsing of his head and the general haziness that hung around him like molasses made him prefer silence.

"Don't worry, Cowboy," Illya said. Even in his semi-befuddled state, the American got the feeling that he was not the one whose worries needed calming. "We're almost there."

"Almost there," Solo repeated blankly. The words floated around in his brain, but didn't seem to connect with anything. "Almost where?" he asked. Illya sighed.

"The extraction point," he answered shortly. "The mission went badly. Very badly." Solo frowned. _Had they-?_

"It wasn't our fault," Illya added, breaking Solo's train of thought, and yet answering the question he hadn't even voiced aloud. _Weird_ , Napoleon mused, distracted. _How had he-?_

"You asked me last time." Illya again answered the American's unfinished, unvoiced question. It took a moment for the Russian's explanation to make sense. _Last time?_ Oh, of course. He had a concussion. And concussed people were extremely prone to repetitiveness. They must have had this exact conversation before. Perhaps many times before. At least Illya's odd mix of irritation and worry made sense now.

"Sorry," the American muttered, feeling distinctly disadvantaged. But he did seem to be aware and alert this time (not that he had any memory of any of the previous times to compare it to). So, wanting to offer some encouragement, he added hopefully, "I think I'm good this time." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the knuckles on Illya's hands whiten as he gripped the steering wheel tighter.

"You said that last time," the Russian informed him.

After that, Napoleon resolved to keep his mouth shut. He really didn't want to make Illya repeat the same conversation over and over again. Not if he could help it, anyway. So he let his pounding head rest against the cool glass of the window, and watched the night's silhouettes blur as they sped past. He tried to remember what had happened, with mild success. A vague recollection of himself and Illya running across an illuminated lawn, trying to escape a well-conceived setup. Illya had been ahead of him, nearly at the fence, just steps from freedom. But someone had caught up to Solo; he could remember the strong arm that had grabbed him and wheeled him around. And after that, nothing. But he knew what must have happened.

"You came back for me," he concluded aloud, forgetting his internal vow of silence. Illya nodded in response. "You could have left. You could have escaped without me." He was thinking aloud now, because his comprehension abilities were barely functioning, and his brain seemed to like this better. "You endangered your own safety... to help _me_." He blinked, then looked over at Illya, whose jaw had, impossibly, tightened even more.

"You-" Illya began, but Napoleon cut him off.

"I know, I know," the American interrupted, resigned. The two spies finished the remark together:

" _Said that last time_."

"Well, thanks anyway," Napoleon continued, after a few beats of silence. He was looking out the window again, determinedly avoiding the sight of his partner's steadily-increasing distress. "Although, I'm not actually that surprised, surprisingly. I mean, about you coming back for me. It would've shocked me speechless a while ago, but I think I've sort of come to expect it." He was babbling now, he knew. Revealing too much. Doubtless making Illya extremely uncomfortable. Solo himself would have been uncomfortable, if he had had the mental clarity for that. "Not that I'm not appreciative," he clarified, probably not too clearly. "Grateful, yes. But not surprised."

Illya said nothing, and Napoleon was visited by a sudden desire to vanish, and then reappear once his mind was more cooperative. What if he had repeated himself again? Would Illya be ripping his hair out by now? Unable to contain his curiosity, Solo gave in and risked a glance at the Russian. His partner was silent, watching the road carefully, face illuminated by the harsh glare of the headlights. But there was a slight tightness at the corner of his lips, and Napoleon inwardly sighed in relief. Illya was stifling a grin.

"That was different," Illya remarked, after a minute.

"Huh?" Napoleon cringed at his own speech. Couldn't he be more... what was that word? _Ah, yes. Eloquent._

"It was different," Illya repeated. "You haven't said that before," he clarified, glancing sidelong at the American.

"Good!" Napoleon grinned, encouraged.

"Yes, it's good," Illya agreed quietly, going back to watching the road. A helpful sign loomed out of the surrounding darkness, and now it was Illya's turn to be encouraged. "Don't worry, Cowboy," he spoke up, wanting to share the good news. "We're almost there."

Solo made no reply, and Illya swallowed the curse that sprang onto his tongue. The American had doubtless fallen unconscious again. Perhaps Solo was worse than he realized. Letting out a long-suffering sigh and dreading what he would find, the Russian took his eyes off the road and glanced at the figure in the passenger seat.

Napoleon was staring back at him, awake and alert, a hint of amusement and mischief in his eyes.

"What?" Illya asked him.

"You said that already."

 **…**

 **(A/N: Hey, readers! Hope you're enjoying! Just wanted to say thanks to Tamuril2 for the inspiration for this chapter! And thanks to everyone else who reviewed; reviews are always** ** _greatly_** **appreciated. Feel free to drop suggestions or things you'd like to see in this series in the review box below. If it strikes my fancy, you'll see it pop up in one of these one-shots. Thanks for reading! Catch ya later.)**


	7. The Double Tap

They were too close, Illya knew. The explosion that was intended to take out the majority of the guards would quite possibly take Illya and his partner out, too. With that moment of insight, Illya tensed, and then-

BOOM!

An intense, searing flash of light. A concussive roar of sound. And then, nothing.

Illya awoke slowly, sluggishly, breathing in the acrid smell of smoke. He could hear occasional sparks and the intermittent clunks of debris shifting and settling. He opened his eyes.

Huh, that was weird. Darkness. Not just darkness - it was pitch black in there. He blinked again, and rubbed his eyes, but the same darkness greeted him again. With a dawning sense of dread, Illya moved his hand in front of his face and waved somewhat frantically. He could feel the rush of wind against his face, but he could see absolutely nothing. _Blind_ , he concluded. He was blind.

Assuring himself that it was highly likely to be merely temporary, Illya staggered to his feet. Aside from his unfortunate vision problem, there seemed to be nothing else majorly wrong - just your run-of-the-mill cuts and bruises. But his lack of sight left him feeling uncomfortably vulnerable, and he held his arms out ahead of him, inwardly cringing at how ridiculous he must look.

A shift of debris from somewhere off to his right immediately put him on his guard. There was a quiet groan.

"Peril?" A rush of guilt flooded immediately through Illya, followed by a wave of concern. How had he forgotten his partner?

"Cowboy? I'm here!" he called.

"Peril?" Solo called again, loudly.

"Right here." Illya figured it would do no good to stumble toward the sound of Napoleon's voice. Blindly navigating a debris-strewn room didn't seem very smart. But he frowned; why hadn't Solo approached him yet? A horrible thought intruded: what if Napoleon was blind, too? "Follow the sound of my voice!" Illya added tensely. Just in case. He could hear his partner's footsteps, sometimes on solid ground, and other times clambering over what sounded like large chunks of ceiling. Solo was slowly getting nearer.

" _Illya_?" Solo shouted. The use of his first name and the edge of desperation in Solo's voice had Illya oddly frightened. It was almost as if none of the Russian's previous responses had registered with his American partner. But just then, the footsteps became undeniably close, and then stopped.

"There you are!" Solo exclaimed, relief flooding his tone. _So he can see_ , Illya noted, as the footsteps rushed closer. A hand gripped his shoulder, and Illya reciprocated the gesture, feeling some of his tension lessen. He felt suddenly grounded, less exposed. "Are you okay? Why didn't you answer me?" Solo asked him, still strangely loud.

"I can't see," Illya informed him curtly. "And I _did_ answer you. And why are you yelling?"

"I'm… yelling?" Solo's voice had now dropped to a level so low that Illya could barely hear him. The Russian nodded in response, knowing Solo could see it.

"Sorry," the American apologized, voice back to a louder volume, but not quite a shout. "I don't know how loud I am; I can't hear anything."

"But," Illya protested confusedly, "you are responding to me."

"I'm reading your lips." Ah. Well, that explained everything. But unfortunately, that also meant…

"You're deaf?"

"Yep," Solo responded. "And you're blind?"

"Yes," Illya agreed.

"Wonderful. Sounds like the beginning of a joke. A blind agent and a deaf agent walk into a mission…" he trailed off ruefully, taking his hand off Illya's shoulder. The Russian had only a second to feel apprehensive, and then Solo's hand was back again, grasping the front of Illya's shirt and leading him carefully forward.

"Five steps down," Solo informed him after a moment, and the two descended the steps carefully. "We're going down a long hallway," the American continued, for good measure. Illya could hear their footsteps echoing off the walls. He reached his hand out to his left, and ran it along the wall. Cobbled stone.

They had walked several more steps before Illya suddenly realized there was another pair of footsteps approaching from the other direction. But Solo continued casually forward, unaware. Perhaps the guard was around a corner where Solo couldn't see him approaching?

"There's someone coming," Illya informed him tensely, but Solo continued forward. Illya mentally slapped himself. Talking to him from behind would accomplish nothing. He reached out and tapped his partner's back in an urgent double tap. He still could see only blackness, but he was sure Napoleon would have turned to look.

"There's someone coming," Illya said again.

"Thanks," Solo responded. He dropped his grip on Illya and hurried forward, while the Russian stood there, feeling highly embarrassed. He was good for nothing for this escape; he couldn't very well fight while blind. He dropped his hands to his sides, felt something metal in his pocket, and then remembered that he had a gun.

"Cowboy! Wait!" he called loudly, stumbling forward a couple of steps with his arms outstretched, but it was no use; if Solo wasn't watching him, he would never get the message.

The guard must have rounded the corner, because the fighting started suddenly. Thuds and grunts reached Illya's ears. He wasn't sure, but the guard sounded like a big guy, more his own size than Napoleon's. The Russian blinked in rapid succession, hoping against hope for a miracle. But still, there was nothing to see.

"Solo!" he called again, wishing fervently that his partner would happen to spare him a glance. "I have a gun! Use my gun!" But the fist fighting continued, and Illya was pretty sure he heard the guard laughing; the Russian was all too aware how idiotic they must seem. For the moment, though, Illya didn't care. If Solo would be able to get the gun, the fight would be over. So he kept trying.

"Take my gun! My gun!" He wasn't quite sure why he was yelling; he could very well stand there and mouth the words. But at least shouting was allowing him to vent some of his frustration.

A particularly loud thump reached him; it sounded like someone had been thrown against a wall. A pained curse from Solo told Illya all he needed to know about his partner's odds. Illya tapped his fingers restlessly against his leg, trying to contain a sudden rage, caught between a fervent desire to help and an obvious reason not to. But then, the lighter pair of footsteps approached him.

"Excuse me," Napoleon said loudly. "I need your size." Utterly bewildered, Illya felt his partner move behind him, gripping the Russian's shoulders. The guard's heavy footsteps rushed toward them. "Duck!" Napoleon yelled, pushing Illya down slightly. He felt his hair ruffle where the guard's blow barely missed his head.

As they stood, Napoleon angled him slightly to dodge yet another blow. After a couple of movements, Illya found it surprisingly easy. They were unbelievably, impeccably in sync, and each slight movement on Solo's part had Illya moving smoothly along with him. They had dodged every hit, and the guard was getting seriously annoyed; Illya could hear his exasperated huffs.

"Twelve o'clock!" Solo yelled. Understanding in an instant, Illya slammed his fist straight in front of him, and grinned as it connected solidly with their opponent. They ducked again, shifted.

"Two o'clock!" Illya's heavy blow struck home again. He could hear Napoleon laughing behind him. They fell into a smooth, easy rhythm for the next minute or so, dodging and aiming at Solo's gleefully shouted instructions. The guard was now screaming in rage.

"12:45!" Napoleon shouted. There was a moment of silence as all three men contemplated that.

"Sorry," Solo groaned. "Got confused."

A ferocious kick from the guard cut off Illya's intended response, and sent him reeling backwards into Solo; they crumpled to the ground in an ungraceful tangle of limbs. But this, Illya quickly realized, was exceedingly fortunate; the gun in his pocket was now digging obviously into Napoleon's side.

"What the-?" Solo wondered amazedly. Illya felt the gun slide quickly out of his pocket, and then-

 _Bang!_ There was a resounding thud as the guard hit the ground; Illya didn't need to see to know that the shot had been lethal. Beside him, Solo slumped, breathing heavily.

" _Why didn't you tell me you had a gun_?!"

 **…**

The guard hurried down the hall alone, gun at the ready. The few of them remaining after the explosion had fanned out in separate directions, not knowing which path the two intruders would take. It was a guessing game, in these labyrinthine halls. Sighing impatiently, he turned a corner, and then stopped short in surprise. There they were, just ahead of him.

The two intruders were making their way down the hall, side by side, each with a hand firmly grasping the other's shoulder. _Strange_ , the guard mused. Undaunted, he hurried forward.

"Halt!" he shouted, cocking his gun so that the sound echoed through the stone hall. The bigger, scarier-looking agent stopped immediately, but the other one continued forward a couple of steps before seeming to notice that his counterpart had stopped. The guard watched him turn to the other.

"What?" he asked him. An American, the guard noted.

"There is a guard behind us, with a gun," the other responded in a heavy Russian accent. "He told us to stop."

Carefully, the guard advanced.

"Stop talking to each other," he commanded. The Russian remained silent. The American's gaze moved from the Russian to the guard, and then back again.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"He wants us to stop talking."

"We did stop walking."

"No, _talking_."

"Oh." With that established, the two intruders turned to look at the guard, who felt suddenly nervous and under-qualified. Why were these intruders behaving so strangely? He gripped his gun tighter, flustered.

"Put your hands in the air," he ordered. Again, the Russian complied, but the American, who was watching the other end of the hall, presumably to see if more guards were coming, ignored him.

"I said put your hands in the air!" the guard shouted, annoyed. But the American ignored him still. The guard stalked further down the hall, closing more of the distance between them. He watched as the Russian double-tapped the American's shoulder, who turned to look.

"What?" he asked.

"He wants us to put our hands in the air."

" _Stop talking to each other_!" the guard snapped. It would be nice to have the two intruders for questioning, but at this rate, he was nearly ready to shoot them and be done with it. At least the American had finally complied, raising his hands steadily into the air. The Russian tapped him again. The American turned.

"What?"

"He wants us to stop talking." At that, the American turned to the face the guard.

"I'm not mocking you," he explained to him, unnecessarily loudly. "I'm just deaf."

" _What_?!" the guard yelled, nearly beside himself. He strode forward until he stood right before the two of them, his trigger finger itching. The American turned back to the Russian when he tapped him yet again.

"Not _mocking_. He wants us to stop _talking_." The American looked confused.

"You said that already," he said, turning to the guard again.

" _I know!_ " the guard raged in response. "But you keep doing it!" He took a deep breath, willing himself to remain calm, to not let these intruders get under his skin. His boss had always warned him that his temper would get him in trouble. "I'm taking you in for questioning," he informed them, with a forced calm. He raised the gun again, pointing it first at the Russian, and then the American. They were at point-blank range; there was no escaping now.

The American tapped the Russian this time.

"What?"

"He's pointing a gun at us."

"Thanks, Cowboy, but I think that's obvious. I'm sure he wouldn't be pointing it at the wall while threatening us," he remarked, blinking rapidly. The American was watching the Russian intently, concentrating, supposedly in an effort to understand him. The guard wasn't sure whether he was buying their act or not. But either way, they were both ignoring him, as if he wasn't even in the room, the Russian staring vaguely in the American's general direction, and the American watching the Russian in case he spoke again. The guard cleared his throat loudly.

"Start walking!" he commanded, intending to march them straight to his boss. But the American, predictably, didn't move. And there was the Russian's infuriating double-tap again.

"What?"

"He wants us to start walking." The American gave the Russian a funny look in response, causing the guard to raise his eyes to the heavens in a wordless gesture of immense exasperation. As such, he missed the American's quickly-stifled grin.

"I love dancing as much as the next guy-"

" _What?!_ " the guard interrupted furiously.

"-but I'm not gonna waltz with you, Peril."

"Not waltzing. _Walking_."

And there it was. The guard snapped. He launched himself at the American with an infuriated roar, but the intruder was quicker. In one fluid movement, he reached forward to point the gun safely downward, and then cleanly snapped the guard's wrist. The guard only had a moment to howl in pain before-

"Three o-clock!" The Russian's staggering blow hit him full in the face. He stumbled backwards two steps, and then fell into unconsciousness.

 **…**

Gaby revved the engine impatiently as the two figures hurried toward the getaway van. They stumbled towards the driver's side, and Gaby leaned out the window to get a good look at them. Their clothes were hopelessly tattered and burnt, but they seemed alright aside from the expected cuts and bruises.

"You okay?" Gaby asked them quickly.

"Sure," Solo confirmed, watching her carefully. "Except that I'm deaf and he's blind," he added, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at Illya. They hurried around to the other side of the van.

"Very funny, Solo." She rolled her eyes, watching them. Solo was clearly leading Illya around. Huh. That _was_ a joke, wasn't it? "Oh, wait!" she called after them, as they headed toward the passenger side. "Don't get in the front passenger side! There's a pile of weapons on the seat; they'll fall out if you open the door." She watched, bewildered, as Illya leaned forward, and double-tapped Solo's back. The American turned around expectantly.

"Don't open the passenger side door. The seat is stacked with weapons."

Napoleon nodded and continued on to the back door. He pulled it open, then moved Illya in front of it.

"One step up," he informed him. Illya clambered awkwardly in, and Solo filed in after. As they buckled in, Gaby hit the gas, and they sped away into the night. She watched her two partners carefully, half disbelieving, half concerned. She could completely see Solo playing a joke like this, but Illya would never have gone along with it.

"You two are seriously blind and deaf?"

Solo was looking out the window, and didn't respond. After a moment of silence, Illya spoke.

"Yes. There was an explosion; we were too close."

"Wow." Gaby didn't know what to say to that. "It's temporary, though, right?" Illya smiled encouragingly at the headrest of the passenger seat.

"I'm sure." They drove on in silence for a while, and Gaby's curiosity mounted. Her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. Illya was blinking rapidly, a look of intense concentration on his face, and Solo was looking right back at Gaby, equally concentrated. She grinned.

"I have to ask. How _on earth_ did you two get out of there?" To her surprise, Illya chuckled quietly.

"The same way we do everything else."

 **…**

 **(A/N: This chapter was inspired by the side-splitting comedy "See No Evil, Hear No Evil" starring Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor. If you haven't seen it, I'd highly recommend it for a good laugh.)**


	8. The Van

"I cannot _believe_ you." Illya's accent was heightened and sharpened out of sheer irritation, his hands curled into tight fists. His whole body was rigid with tension, but he could make no physical action, strapped to the seat as he was. Yet he still glared at Solo, whose brief display of genuine surprise did not go unnoticed. But the American said nothing, and after a couple of seconds, the floor vibrated beneath them, the sputtering of an engine filled the silence, and then they were in motion. Solo walked through the back of the van until he reached the divider that separated them from their captors. He pressed his ear to it, listening with a look of intense concentration. After several moments, he grinned and turned back to his bound partner.

"Hey, they're taking us to the big guy himself!" But Illya did not grin back, and in fact was still seething.

"I _know_ that," the Russian snapped. "Marino has wanted us dead for months. Did you think they were going to drop me off at the closest hotel?"

"No." The American shrugged his jacket off, and began tearing a long piece of fabric off his shirt. "I thought maybe I could hitch a ride to the nearest bar, or casino. I could use a drink. Or a nice game of cards." Solo looked up to meet Illya's eyes, but got only a heated glare in return. His partner's continued anger killed his cheery mood, so he strode over to Illya in professional mode instead.

"How bad?" Solo asked shortly, wrapping the strip of fabric around the deep cut in Illya's side. He tied it tightly, watched his partner hide a wince.

"Not bad. It's not going to kill me." Illya was pointedly looking away from Solo, watching the trundling metal doors at the back of the van and wishing the American had never come through them. "I still can't believe you," he spat through gritted teeth, turning his gaze back to Napoleon. And again, some corner of his mind registered that Solo was actually surprised at his anger. But the soldier-turned-thief-turned-spy didn't miss a beat.

"Of course you can't believe me; half of everything I say is a lie."

"You know that's not what I mean. I can't believe how much of an _idiot_ you are." Illya's hands are still clenched in tight fists, his posture unnaturally straight. "They captured _me_ , Solo. Not you."

"Yes," the American agreed evenly, his eyes darting again to the wound in his partner's side. "I'm quite aware."

"Then _why_ ," Illya ground out, "did you feel the need to sneak onto this van with me?" Solo has started to get irritated, too; Illya can tell by the set of his jaw.

"Because," Solo responded, with forced levity, "Gaby would kill me if I let them take you like that."

"Well, congratulations, you've saved her the trouble of doing that. Since you've decided to tag along, Marino will just kill us both. I'm sure Waverly will be so proud; you just ensured your own unnecessary death."

Napoleon blinked at him, finally understanding why Illya was so upset. He wasn't mad that Solo had come to save him; instead, he was convinced that Solo's last-second slip through the closing van doors meant that Marino would now kill both agents, instead of just the Russian. Illya was annoyed because, in his view, Solo was going to die for nothing.

"You know, I never noticed before…" Solo began slowly, tilting his head to watch Illya contemplatively. The sudden switch in tone was so confusing that the Russian seemed to momentarily forget his anger. He watched Solo curiously, wondering what the American's supposed revelation had been. "You're just a bright ray of sunshine, aren't you?"

And there it was. Illya's anger had returned.

"This is not the moment for jokes, Cowboy," Illya growled. But Solo was unconcerned; they were at least on better terms now. Illya had returned to nicknames.

"Ah, but Peril, it's always the moment for jokes," Solo mumbled idly, wandering back over to the divider. His eyes swept the entirety of their confines, each blank, unhelpful metal wall. "Anyway, you shouldn't be such a drama queen." Illya rolled his eyes. "Neither of us is gonna die. Well, okay, eventually. But not tonight. And certainly not at the hands of Marino." And, for the first time on their tense ride, some of Illya's anger began to melt away. His features shifted from irritation to determination, and he nodded curtly at his American partner. Perhaps Solo had _not_ doomed himself by jumping into the van as an unnoticed, unplanned captive. If Solo thought that they could both make it out alive, then Illya would just have to trust him. He hadn't let him down yet.

"You know," Solo said conversationally, "I always thought that I could've been an escape artist." His tone was light, but Illya knew him well enough to know that his idle remarks were merely to conceal the depth of his concentration and internal planning. It worked very well on many unsuspecting adversaries, and the habit had ingrained itself to the point where, in a chess match, Solo cracked incessant jokes whilst demolishing his opponent. Illya knew Solo's attention was only half on their conversation, but he replied anyway; it was a nice distraction from the relentless stinging in his side, too. He wondered briefly if Napoleon knew that.

"An escape artist?" Illya echoed. "No, I don't think so."

"Why not?" Napoleon shot back, mockingly offended.

"Because, Cowboy, you were in _prison_."

"Well, I'm not now, am I?" he retorted smugly. Illya found he didn't have a reply to that, so he merely huffed in annoyance.

"Are you going to untie me?" the Russian finally asked; he was still strapped to the seat while his partner paced freely. "Or did you just tag along to annoy me?" But Solo had stopped in his tracks, as if struck. He turned slowly to face Illya, his expression calculating, pensive.

"No," he said slowly. Then he nodded, mostly to himself. "No, I think it's better if you stay strapped down." So saying, he pulled a revolver out of his pocket and began fiddling with it, his hands moving in quick, precise movements. Illya was just about to ask what he was doing, but Solo hummed in thought and began explaining.

"I think we'll have an unfortunate car crash," he said matter-of-factly, "in which the driver tragically meets his end. And his coworker, well, of course he dies, too. Their captive, meanwhile, miraculously makes it out and-" Solo stopped. "Wait. Scratch that." Illya waited to hear Solo's new improved plan. The American finished messing with the gun, and slid the chamber back into the revolver with a _snap_. A grim smile flashed across his features. "There's an explosion," he announced. "No one survives."

" _What?_ "

"Well, it _is_ an awfully big explosion. And the car is just so incinerated by the time help arrives that there is no hope of examining the wreckage. Everyone is presumed dead." Ah, now Napoleon was starting to seem less insane.

"Presumed?" Illya repeated, catching Solo's wording.

"Why, yes. Marino, he loses two of his guys, but hey! Those annoying U.N.C.L.E. agents that have been getting in his way are out of the picture! And you know what? Marino celebrates. Maybe even relaxes. Maybe even starts to get… _careless_."

"You want to fake our deaths. Lure him into a false sense of security."

"This mission has been dragging on for months as is. We're already deep. But we go just a _little_ bit deeper, and Marino is ours. He'll get careless when he thinks no one's watching."

"Okay," Illya agreed. "Deeper." Solo smiled at him, and then, without warning, threw open the divider and stuck his revolver through it.

"Stop the vehicle!" Solo screamed, brandishing the gun at the driver. There was something clumsy and amateurish about his attempt, and as the captor in the passenger seat wrestled the gun just _slightly_ too easily out of Solo's grip, Illya knew instantly that everything was going according to plan. The passenger aimed the gun right in Napoleon's face, and time seemed to slow as the nameless henchman's finger tightened around the trigger. Solo slammed the divider shut again, and ducked.

 _BANG!_ The wall separating the two agents from the driver's cab dented outward with a metallic _crunch_ , and Napoleon was thrown backwards from the force of the small explosion triggered by the rigged gun. Illya was shoved sharply, too, and the movement tore painfully at the wound in his side; he was glad that Solo had left him strapped in.

But the van was now beginning to veer off course and pick up speed. The two agents shared a tense, worried glance, and then they were shoved roughly in the opposite direction. The van had plowed straight into something solid and unmoving. The back of the van lurched upwards with the force of the impact, and then dropped back onto the ground with a resounding thud; clouds of dirt drifted in through the misaligned back doors.

"Cowboy?" Illya groaned immediately, coughing at the dirt that hung in the air. "You okay?" he asked the drifting dust.

"Better than you, I'm sure," Solo responded. He stood carefully, his silhouette now visible in the thick air. He approached Illya immediately, seemed to materialize a knife from nowhere, and set to work cutting the straps restraining his Russian partner. Soon, the final strap slipped off, and Illya stood gratefully, one arm moving to cradle his injured side. Solo made no comment on this, but met his eyes, a silent question. The Russian nodded in response, an unspoken reassurance.

Napoleon handed Illya a flask of alcohol from inside his jacket, and Illya, without needing to be told, began pouring it on the van floor. Solo wrenched open the back doors and disappeared into the darkness outside; Illya knew without asking that he was tampering with the van's gas tank.

When the Russian deemed the inside of the van to be sufficiently flammable, he put his hands in his pockets and strolled outside, stopping to admire the enormous tree that their van had barreled into. Napoleon met him, and wordlessly, they each tossed a small item to the other. Illya caught a small first aid kit, presumably fetched from the van's glove compartment. Solo caught Illya's box of matches. The American pulled one out and struck it; the warm glow illuminated his grinning face, and Illya was suddenly glad that Solo had slipped in through the closing van doors.

"We _are_ going to let Gaby in on our scheme, aren't we?" Illya asked him. His breath misted in the cold night air.

"Are you kidding me? She would kill us if we didn't."

"No," Illya disagreed. "Just you."

Solo laughed, and flicked the match.


	9. The Redux

**(A/N: A reversal of roles from the previous chapter. Thanks to Tamuril2 for suggesting that Illya reciprocate Solo's actions in "The Van". Please enjoy "The Redux", and as always, thank you so much for reading!)**

Illya followed them at a distance, stealing glances from hidden shadows, listening carefully to the heavy steps of the guard marching in tandem with Solo's uncoordinated scuffling. They turned down several corridors, each as unremarkable and unfamiliar as the next. Illya tried his hardest to keep his bearings; it would do them no good to get lost on their way out.

Finally, the footsteps stopped, and Illya peered carefully around the corner. It was empty except for the lone guard and Solo, and the only room down the whole length of the hall was a single cell with barred doors. These doors were currently being unlocked by the guard, somewhat clumsily, as his other hand was busy gripping the back of Solo's jacket to keep him in some semblance of an upright position. Illya sighed inwardly, and surveyed the hallway again. It was too long; the guard would undeniably see him coming and shoot him before he could get anywhere near close enough to take him out. And he doubted the guard would leave his partner's cell unsupervised after he had been placed in it, even in his current state. So, there was only one thing left to do. As the guard swung the barred door open with a screechy protest of rusty hinges, and shoved Solo carelessly inside, Illya stepped into view and walked down the hallway towards the guard.

Amazingly, the guard didn't notice. And yet there was no hope that Illya would be able to get to him before he _did_ notice. So the Russian stopped where he was and cleared his throat pointedly, raising his arms in surrender. At the sound, the guard whirled around, gun at the ready.

"You!" he shouted, immediately recognizing Illya as his prisoner's partner. "Don't try anything, or I'll shoot!"

"I'm not trying anything at all," Illya placated, moving slowly forward with his hands still signifying surrender. To his immense amusement, every two steps he took had the guard moving a step backwards, although he still kept his gun trained steadily on the Russian, finger on the trigger. Eventually, Illya was even with the cell doors, the guard watching warily from a few feet away. But still the other man said nothing, apparently waiting to see what Illya would do.

The guard's hard expression slackened as the Russian silently strode into the cell, and then pointedly closed the iron doors, effectively taking himself captive. The guard's mouth dropped open, forming a comical "o" shape, and it was only after a few seconds that the man abruptly shut his mouth with a clack of teeth, and rushed forward to lock the cell doors, presumably before Illya could change his mind. With the cell now secured, the guard continued to stare, baffled, at the Russian, who held the guard's gaze in a nonchalant manner, as if he regularly walked himself into captivity. The guard blinked at him once more, and then turned and started dazedly down the hall, beginning his back-and-forth patrol of the long dark corridor. As soon as his steps faded out of earshot, Illya turned.

Solo was no longer on the floor where the guard had dropped him, but was instead splayed out across the single wooden bench in the cell. He took up the whole length of it, lying flat on his back, arms folded neatly across his chest.

"Cowboy." Illya moved forward to stand in his partner's line of vision, voice low so as not to be overheard by the roaming guard. Solo, for his part, blinked up at the Russian with unfocused eyes. Illya waited patiently. Another blink. Another. Ah, there it was - the American grinned in apparent recognition. His eyes moved from Illya to the iron bars encasing the two of them, and back again.

"Is this a thing now?" he asked finally, with a winning smile. "Are we a package deal?"

"Shut up, you idiot. The guard will hear us," Illya warned him, unamused.

"Amazing deals on U.N.C.L.E. agents! Get yours today!"

"Solo…"

"Catch one agent, get one free!"

"Solo!" Illya hissed.

"Hurry up and catch your agents, folks, because these deals are _criminal_."

"…Are you done?" Illya asked him, after a moment of silence. But the American didn't answer him. His giddy smile faded, his eyebrows pulled together, and he seemed suddenly to get a grip on himself. He uncrossed his arms and pushed himself part of the way up, wide eyes staring at the dirty stone floor.

"What?" Illya asked him.

"Did… Did I just make a really horrible pun?" he whispered hoarsely.

"Yes." At this, the American sighed and slumped back onto the bench.

"What did they give me?" he asked tonelessly.

"I don't know," Illya answered shortly. The image of the needle being jabbed into Solo's neck, and the frankly alarming speed with which his partner's expression dulled, popped into his mind. He shook his head, partly to clear it, and partly to respond to the American's resigned question. "But I hope it wears off soon," Illya continued, glancing out the doors to see if the guard was nearing. "It's making you even more intolerable than usual." A barely-stifled chuckle drew Illya's attention, and he turned back to find Solo shaking in silent laughter. His brief moment of lucidity had passed. With a long-suffering sigh, Illya stood over his partner once more and tapped him to get his focus - or at least, to get as much focus as Solo was currently able to grab hold of. The American bit his lip to keep from laughing, and looked up expectantly.

"Come on," Illya ordered gently, pulling Solo up into a sitting position. "We're going to get out of here, and I'm going to give you the simplest job possible, okay? You think you can handle it?" Solo bobbed his head a little excessively, which wasn't the most encouraging of signs, but Illya pressed on anyway. "Get on the floor," he continued. "Don't move, and don't make any noise." Illya wasn't sure how well a drugged Solo could follow instructions, but he had to trust that somewhere in his addled mind was the motivation to work _with_ Illya, and not against him. Without looking to see if Solo would comply, without giving himself a moment to doubt his plan, Illya strode forward and pressed himself against the bars.

"Hey!" he called, banging on the bars impatiently. "Help! Hurry!" The cacophony echoed through the empty hall, and the guard rushed over, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched.

"What do you want?" he snapped.

" _What do I want?_ " Illya repeated, practically bellowing in outrage. "You idiots!" He spat several Russian curses in a heated stream. "Do you want us for questioning, or not? Because if you do, we need to be _alive_ , wouldn't you think?" One of the guard's eyes twitched.

"What do you mean?" His voice wavered the tiniest bit.

"What I _mean_ is that this American agent is dying because you overdosed him!" At this impassioned declaration, the guard stepped forward, trying to look around Illya, to see for himself. _Almost there._ Illya shifted to the side to provide a view for the guard, who stepped forward again. _So close._

"Look at him!" Illya urged, pointing aggressively at his partner, who, he was pleased to note, was playing along quite well. "He hasn't moved since you so kindly _threw him on the floor_ , and he is barely breathing." The guard, evidently to watch for the rise and fall of Solo's chest, moved one more step closer. _There_. With lightning speed, Illya reached his hand through the bars and grabbed the guard's shirt, slamming him forward into the iron bars. He slumped, immediately unconscious. Illya quickly rummaged through his pockets for the ring of keys, and upon finding them, began shoving random ones into the lock, hoping fervently for a fast match. The fifth key he tried slid satisfactorily in, and a heartening _click_ echoed through the corridor as their cell door finally unlocked.

"Yes!" Illya cheered quietly, shoving the door outwards and moving the guard's prone form with it. "Let's go." He turned to find his partner in the same position.

"Solo," Illya hissed. "You're done; we need to leave now." But still Napoleon remained motionless and unresponsive. Illya hurried over to him and knelt at his side, studiously ignoring the knot in his stomach. "Wake up!" To Illya's immense relief, Solo did just that, stirring and then watching the Russian uncomprehendingly.

"Peril? Wha's goin' on?" He stared intensely at Illya, clearly making a great effort to focus. Another brief moment of relative clarity, it seemed. But there was no time to explain; someone was bound to come check on the agents soon, and they had better be a good distance away by then, if they had any shot at all of escaping.

"No time to explain," Illya told the bewildered American. "Come with me, and keep a lookout if you can." Illya stood and pulled Solo to his feet as well, who steadied himself and then nodded, urging Illya ahead. Napoleon followed him quietly and without comment, and Illya was suddenly fiercely grateful that after everything, Solo could wake up in utter confusion and yet blindly follow him without question, reluctance, or suspicion.

After passing through several corridors without running into a single soul, Illya had moved from being grateful for their unusual luck, to being highly suspicious of it. Something, somewhere, _had_ to go wrong. Tensing, he slowed his pace as he turned the next corner, and then stopped abruptly. There were three guards down that very same hallway, miraculously wrapped in a conversation that meant they failed to notice the Russian spy standing only several feet away. Illya had a second to be relieved, and then Solo barreled into him from behind.

The two spies lurched forward, stumbling conspicuously into the middle of the hall, and thus into the center of the guards' attention. The three guards instantly moved forward and surrounded them, drawing their guns, and then exchanging uncertain glances as the American suddenly burst into laughter. Illya tried to shoot him a warning glance, to wordlessly tell him to be quiet, but clearly, no form of communication was going to penetrate Solo's drug-induced state. The American continued to laugh, face flushed and eyes beginning to water, before he finally doubled over in near-hysteria, clinging to Illya's shoulder to stay upright.

"I'm sorry," he managed to gasp in between shouts of laughter that made Illya cringe. "I didn't see you stop, and, I just - I just kept going!" Illya ignored his elated partner and instead quickly scanned the corridor, looking for something - anything - to help their disastrous plight. The guards, meanwhile, were frowning at Solo, shifting their guns in their hands uneasily. In fact, Illya noticed, Solo was holding their attention entirely. The corridor offered nothing to aid their escape, so, Illya supposed, his partner would have to do.

"Sorry," Illya muttered quietly to Solo, before shoving him directly into one of the guards. Caught by surprise, the guard was knocked to the ground by Napoleon's dead weight. The other two guards, though momentarily stunned by the unexpected action, leapt forward, but Illya was quicker. The Russian had often taken two armed men down without being armed himself, and he made short work of them.

As the second man slumped to the ground, Illya turned back to Solo, and was inexpressibly relieved to see that the American had at least had enough sense to wrestle the guard's gun away, and pin him down with it. Illya knelt beside his partner, and gently but firmly took the firearm out of his hands. He used the butt of it to knock the guard out cold.

"Keep moving," he told Solo urgently, grabbing him and pulling him back to his feet once more. Illya could feel the heat through the American's jacket as he pulled him along, and made note of the fact that Solo's face was still brightly flushed - unhealthily so.

"How come _you_ get the gun?" the American asked, a good five minutes after leaving the three unconscious guards behind.

"Because," Illya informed him quietly, "you're not allowed one right now. You would probably shoot yourself on accident." The Russian spared a quick sideways glance at his partner, who looked momentarily affronted at these words. But he nonetheless continued to follow Illya obediently, indeed almost absent-mindedly. He was silent for the length of another corridor, apparently mulling this reasoning over.

"But," Napoleon spoke up eventually, "I was a shoulder." This strange pronouncement nearly made Illya stop walking; as it was, he slowed his pace out of utter confusion.

"What?"

"I can handle a gun, because I was a _shoulder_ ," Napoleon repeated emphatically. Illya shot him an appraising look. The American was now looking confused, mouthing the word "shoulder", evidently perplexed about something. Illya shook his head and focused instead on their path. They turned another corner, and were met with stairs. Illya's heart lifted. They were going the right way. But now Solo was beginning to slow down, his steps becoming worryingly unsteady.

"We're almost out of the building, Cowboy. It won't take long." Illya put his arm around his partner, taking some of his weight, and the American hummed his thanks. They reached the top of the stairs, and saw a door just ahead, a promising breeze flowing from underneath it. The sight encouraged both spies, and the pair picked up their speed as they neared it.

"Soldier!" Solo shouted suddenly, making Illya jump.

"Where?" Illya pulled the gun and scanned the surrounding darkness warily, moving both of them back into a concealing shadow.

"No, not _there_ ," Napoleon informed him amusedly, as if Illya had been silly to jump to that conclusion. " _Me_." Illya dropped the gun and stared, bewildered, at his partner.

"What are you talking about?"

"Soldier," Solo repeated. "I can handle a gun, because I was a _soldier_." He grinned widely at Illya, who stared stoically back for several moments, internally reminding himself that Solo was drugged and not in his right mind, and therefore not to be held accountable for his actions - or words, for that matter. The Russian let out a slow breath, and then spoke with forced calm.

"Yes, you were a soldier. Can we go now?" Solo nodded in response, and walked around the Russian, sweeping out the door ahead of him. Sighing, Illya followed, swinging the door open. He made it two steps onto the spongey grass before he was tackled from behind, the gun flying out of his hands and into the overgrown lawn.

For a fleeting fraction of a second, Illya thought that Solo had run into him again, but in the next instant it was _he_ who slammed into _Solo_ , propelled forward by the unknown tackler behind him; all three of them landed sprawled in the wet grass. The attacker had Illya around the neck from behind, but the Russian maneuvered skillfully out of his grip. He stood in front of Solo, who was still lying in the grass, to face their assailant, ready and eager to take the man down in a pleasing fist fight that would surely relieve some of this calamitous night's stress. But the guard, instead of advancing on Illya, shoved a hand in his coat; it emerged with a glint of silver, and Illya realized his mistake with a sudden sinking feeling.

Hopelessly, recklessly, Illya surged forward with a desperate idea to knock the gun out of the guard's hand, but he had barely moved before-

 _Bang!_

It was the startled surprise in the guard's eyes, more than anything, that told Illya he was safe. The guard's surprise melted into confusion, and together the two men looked down at the revolver in the guard's hand. It hadn't been fired. Their united gaze shifted from the unfired gun to the American on the ground a few feet away. The spy held a pistol that was smoking heavily in the chilly evening, kept aloft by surprisingly steady hands. Illya grinned. The guard collapsed.

"You're welcome," Solo announced pointedly, almost dropping the gun as it felt suddenly heavier. Illya took it and pocketed it smoothly, watching as his partner's discerning gaze became increasingly vague and unfocused, a tell-tale sign that his helpful moment of lucidity was fading fast.

"Package deal!" Napoleon shouted suddenly at the guard's dead body. Illya urgently shushed him, but was ignored. "Mess with one U.N.C.L.E. agent, get another one free!"

"Shhh!" Illya cautioned yet again. "We're not out of this yet. But we're so close. We just need to _keep quiet_ , and we will be fine. Yes?"

"Yes," Solo agreed, still a little on the loud side.

"Good." Illya leaned down and pulled Solo to his feet for what he hoped was the final time that night, and together, they headed quietly for the edge of the property line.

After a fifteen minute walk, with pauses for hiding, the two agents arrived at their unmarked vehicle. Illya laughed shakily in relief, unlocking the passenger door and holding it open for Solo, who all but collapsed into the seat. The Russian shut the door behind him, and then crossed to the driver's side.

Illya climbed in, slid the keys into the ignition, and leaned his head back against the headrest, eyes closed, feeling suddenly drained. He could very easily have fallen asleep there, but he knew they would need to get further away - preferably all the way back to their hotel - before they could finally rest. Or at least, _he_ would have to wait, as he was the driver. Solo could sleep, and probably _should_. Illya frowned at the realization of the long silence that had gone on, and wondered if Solo had drifted to sleep already. Peeling his eyes open, he looked to his side.

Napoleon was leaning forward, elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, fingers gripping his hair tightly.

"Hey," Illya said quietly. "You okay?" Solo looked up, eyes clearer than they had been all night, but he was slouched unnaturally. He ran his hands through his hair, looking to the floorboard beneath his feet, and then eventually meeting Illya's gaze again.

"Uh, did… I mean, am I…?" he trailed off, blinking rapidly at the floorboard once more. "Is this real?" he asked finally, looking back to his partner.

"Yes."

A quiet curse. "They gave me something?"

"Yes."

Another breathless curse, German this time. "Messed with my head," he groaned. Silence, and then: "Was I a complete idiot?"

"No more than usual," Illya told him good-naturedly. But Solo shot him a sharp look. "Okay," Illya relented. "Maybe a little more than usual." The American sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed tightly. He wasn't his usual good-humored self, but instead bowed his head, exhausted and defeated. Illya simply started the engine.

"You know," he said, "this is why I hate working with you, Cowboy." And to the Russian's immense relief, Solo sat up and glanced over, features alight with sudden appreciation, and grinned - a tired half-grin, but a grin nonetheless.

"You're a terrible spy, Peril," the American responded quietly, settling back into the seat.

"You, too," Illya told him. But Solo was already asleep.


	10. The Handcuffs

"No."

"Come on, Illya. You know we promised we'd let him know how it went."

"We can call him."

"No, we're going to go _see_ him, right now."

"Our room telephone works fine."

"This is ridiculous, Illya. We're already here." Gaby used her left hand to gesture at the door before which they had stood for several indecisive minutes; a few drops of water flew off of her sleeve with the movement. "And you know this will cheer him up."

"He will laugh."

"Of course he will," Gaby agreed, smiling herself. But Illya was still flushed with embarrassment. Gaby could practically feel the heat of it radiating off the Russian in waves, despite the fact that both of them were currently drenched.

"He's probably sleeping," Illya returned eventually, a half-hearted protest.

"You know he isn't," Gaby rejoined patiently. "Besides," she began, grinning with triumph; this was one point he would have to give in to. "If we go to our own room, do you have anything to get these off?" She moved her right hand pointedly, pulling Illya's left hand along with it. They both looked down at the handcuffs linking them together.

"Fine," Illya relented after a moment of deeply frustrated silence. Then he stretched out his right hand and knocked on the door. "Cowboy," he called, raising his voice to be heard from within the room. "It's us." There was a shuffle of movement from inside, quiet footsteps approaching the door. Gaby heard Illya sigh resignedly, and then the two agents watched as the room door swung open.

Solo stood in the doorway, polite half-smile curving his lips in greeting. His dark hair was still more disheveled than usual, and he had swapped his normal high-end clothes for warm pajamas. He was slightly pale, nose a bit red, posture just slightly off of its regular military-style erectness. But all in all, Gaby noted, he was looking better. She watched as his eyes traveled over their waterlogged clothes, dripping steadily into the hotel's carpet, and finally settled on the handcuffs that chained the two of them together. His polite smile morphed further into a face-splitting grin the longer he examined their situation. Gaby suspected he was only containing full-on laughter in respect of Illya's obvious discomfort.

"Wow," Napoleon spoke finally, voice raspy and grating. He cleared his throat. "It went that well, huh?" he asked them, grinning hugely.

"That's right," Illya responded, nodding curtly. "Go ahead. Get all of your terribly witty one-liners out of the way now." But Solo just continued to stare at them, inordinately happy about their apparent misfortune. After a minute, he shook his head.

"I've got nothing," he said with a shrug, undying grin still planted firmly on his face. Illya looked disbelieving.

"As fun as this is to stand here handcuffed and soaking wet," Gaby interjected, "are you going to let us in, or just stand there smiling?"

"Do I have a choice? I'd rather just stand here and-" But Gaby cut Solo off with an impatient huff and pushed the door open wider, letting herself and Illya in. Solo closed the door behind them as they headed to a nearby dresser and began opening drawers at random.

"We need something to get these idiotic things off," Illya explained. "Do you have those clunky bolt cutters of yours?"

"Well, sure, you can waste your time digging them out," Solo told him. "Or you can just come over here and I'll pick that in two seconds." The pair exchanged glances before heading back to stand before the American, holding out their hands to present the cuffs for his inspection. Napoleon moved forward for a closer look, holding a small metal tool that they hadn't seen him pick up. And then he stopped with the tool floating an inch from the cuffs, expression suddenly blank.

"What?" Gaby asked. Solo blinked bemusedly at the cuffs for another second, a slow smile working its way back onto his face, and then he was laughing. He bit his lip in an effort to contain his apparent mirth, but then started laughing again almost immediately. The two cuffed spies watched him double over in extreme amusement, still holding their hands out, steadily getting more and more annoyed.

"Cowboy!" Illya snapped. The American straightened up, still trying to smother the hilarity.

"Sorry," he apologized, looking distinctly _not_ sorry. But then his quieting laughter gave way to coughing; he turned away quickly from the other two, holding out a finger in a "give me a minute" gesture. After his slight coughing fit had passed, he turned back to them, clearing his throat, and somehow still grinning. He impatiently waved off Gaby's unspoken concern, and then pointed at the glinting handcuffs.

"Please," Solo croaked joyously. "Please, please, _please_ tell me how you managed to get stuck in these."

"What do you mean?" Illya asked. "They're handcuffs. If you don't know how handcuffs work, you're definitely getting worse and not better." But Solo continued to grin at them, undeterred.

"They're _magician's_ handcuffs."

"How did you know?" Gaby asked, gaping, while Illya cursed quietly.

"Anyone who knows even the simplest sleight-of-hand will know what these are," Solo explained, chuckling lightly. "But how come nobody told me there was a magician involved with this mission?"

"First of all, because you're not supposed to be involved in the mission, as you're supposed to be _resting_ ," Illya put in pointedly. "So if you're not up to undoing these, then we'll just be on our way." He made as if to leave, but Solo rushed forward.

"Alright, alright," the American placated. The handcuffs slid off their wrists before they had even realized he had started on them. "Secondly?" Solo prompted. Illya frowned, rubbing his wrist where the cuffs had been.

"Secondly," he admitted, "because there was no magician involved in this mission."

"There wasn't? Then how did you get cuffed with these? Why would non-magician arms dealers use these to cuff you?"

"No, no, no. They did not cuff us," Illya answered shortly, marching toward the bathroom cabinet and pulling out thick towels for himself and Gaby.

"Okay, then I'm lost."

"The handcuffs and the…" Gaby trailed off and gestured to her soaked clothes. "None of that had anything to do with the mission, actually." She caught the towel that Illya tossed her, and then crossed the room to the cabinet that held emergency bags for each of the three agents, pulling some dry clothes from her bag. "The mission went fine," she declared proudly.

"Ah, does that mean I owe you?" Napoleon asked her. Illya, toweling off his hair, stopped to watch the two of them suspiciously.

"Owe you?" the Russian echoed.

"No, it was a draw," Gaby told Solo, ignoring Illya. "You were wrong about the first thing. We were actually very good at pretending to be strangers, thank you very much, and they did _not_ peg us as a team."

"Well done!" Solo grinned.

"But you _were_ right about the night ending in a shootout," Gaby continued. Solo nodded knowingly. "So we're even."

"Huh, a win-win situation," Solo mused, settling himself into one of the room's cushy armchairs. Gaby hummed in pleasant agreement and headed over to the bathroom to change. But Illya stepped in front of the bathroom door, blocking her.

"Hold on, hold on. Did you two make a _bet_ about the outcome of the mission?" he asked them, equal parts incredulous and annoyed. Gaby just smiled and stepped around him, darting through the door and closing it behind her.

"No, of course not!" Solo informed Illya. "We made _two_ bets, of equal amount. That's why we ended up breaking even." Illya stared at him for several seconds, apparently decided it was simpler to let the whole thing go, and strode over to the still-open cabinet to fish out some of his own clothes.

"So?" Napoleon asked him eventually. "How did the magician-less mission go?" With a resigned sigh, Illya gathered an armful of dry clothes and dropped them onto the plush couch across from Solo. He himself did not sit, but remained standing, damp and intermittently dripping, a respectful distance away from the hotel's nice furniture. The American continued to watch him eagerly, so Illya folded his arms and nodded in acquiescence, compliantly fulfilling his story-telling role.

"They didn't suspect us at all."

 **…**

Illya followed a cheerfully-whistling Miller through a lavish hallway, Waverly's calm matter-of-fact instructions running through his head. _If possible, we would like you two to simply get in and get out, establish a rapport with Miller. We know next to nothing about the way he runs his criminal operation, and having you two get in on it would be a tremendous help towards determining the extent of his reach. However, with that said, our lack of knowledge on Miller does mean that you are more or less going in blind._

The hallway ended in a door, which Miller held open for Illya with a smile. Passing through it, Illya found himself in a spacious room, already occupied by three men and Gaby - or Sylvia Vogel, to everyone else. _Miss Teller will be on the demand side of the operation, representing a potential purchaser of Miller's finest missiles, while you, Kuryakin, are coming from the supply side. You are an acquirer of particularly destructive arms, and are looking to turn a profit by aligning your specialties with Miller's organization._

"Mr. Volkov," Miller announced, addressing Illya politely, "please allow me to introduce Miss Vogel. She has come to me as a representative of one… Mr. Hartmann?" He looked inquisitively to Gaby, who nodded in confirmation. "Mr. Hartmann," Miller repeated. "He is looking to purchase a rather large batch of high-quality missiles." At this, he grinned jovially, like a baker negotiating the sale of several dozen pies.

Illya nodded curtly, without comment; Miller had helpfully taken an immediate liking to Illya, being, as he had laughingly rejoiced, "a man of few words and even less nonsense!" The Russian had every intention of playing to this advantage, and so was resolved to conform to Miller's image of him.

"Oh, and these men," Miller added as an afterthought, "are with me." He gestured to the three expressionless men, who nodded at Illya in acknowledgement. Illya nodded back, taking careful note that all three of them were armed; the holsters on their sides revealed glinting silver handles. _If the situation does escalate to one in which violence is necessary_ , Waverly had added pleasantly, _do try to capture Miller alive. That way we will at least have him for questioning, you understand._

"Now," Miller continued pleasantly, "I must correct a small misconception on your part, Miss Vogel - or rather, on the part of your boss, Mr. Hartmann." So saying, Miller nodded to one of his men, who subtly moved behind Gaby. She glanced nervously at the man, moving forward to distance herself from him. But the man simply moved closer to her again, causing Gaby to look to Miller for an explanation. Illya, on his part, was fighting very hard to not tense up at the obvious threat. Volkov didn't know her, and wouldn't be the slightest bit upset at a threat towards her. So Illya kept his expression neutral, watching the scene unfold with vague disinterest. Gaby was trusting him to play his part, just as she was playing hers. One wrong move on his part could expose them both. There was simply no room for error.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Gaby spoke finally, voice small with an almost imperceptible waver. She looked pleadingly at Miller, desperate for an explanation. "You wish me to deliver a message to Mr. Hartmann?"

"Oh, no, my dear," Miller corrected lightly. "You _are_ the message." Another nod had the man behind Gaby moving forward with startling speed. He grabbed her roughly, forcing her into a kneeling position in the middle of the room. Illya's world went suddenly red, but then-

" _Remember your cover!_ " It was Gaby, speaking in German, sobbing in fear in the middle of the room. To Miller and his men, she had resorted to hysterical pleas in her native tongue; they could not understand German, and so were oblivious to the spies' disguised conversation. Illya, however, could understand her perfectly. He blinked the edges of red out of his vision, and internally thanked Solo for the helpful tip. He had been the one to suggest that they use German or Russian, respectively, if they needed to communicate without the others catching on. Illya had been doubtful of this plan, but Solo had been completely confident. _Trust me_ , he had said (or rather, whispered scratchily). _They're American. They'll only know English._ And he was right.

"I'm sorry, darling," Miller told Gaby, moving forward with a smile. "It's nothing to do with you, Miss Vogel. It's just that I'm not the type of man you send your secretary to. If Mr. Hartmann wants to do business with me, he's going to have to show his face, and since he lacked the courtesy to do so, he'll have to learn the hard way."

"Are you going to kill me?" Gaby asked him quietly, breathless with terror.

"No, Miss Vogel, I won't. Because, you see, this is a great learning opportunity for someone else." Miller nodded to his other two men, who moved behind him like bodyguards. "Mr. Volkov!" Illya moved forward without comment, making a point to look neither eager nor reluctant. "It's time for you to get a feel for how I do business! If you're going to be on the team, you'll need to show me you can play the game. Not that I doubt you, of course, but… you understand my caution, I'm sure."

"What do you want?" Illya asked him bluntly. Miller laughed again, loud and showy.

"Straight to the point. I like it." He pulled a pistol out of his coat, handed it over to Illya. Behind Miller, the two guards drew their own guns - a wordless warning. "You are going to shoot her," Miller pronounced. Illya held the gun steady, safely lowered toward the ground, considering this.

"You want me to kill her?" he confirmed, nodding at his tearful partner, still held in place by Miller's third man.

"Yes, indeed."

"Okay," Illya said. He shot Miller in the knee.

The arms dealer crumpled to the ground with an agonized howl, as Gaby slammed her elbow backwards in a vicious blow to her captor's groin. She grabbed the gun from his holster and knocked him out with the butt of it, while Illya turned his gun on one of the thoroughly-surprised guards still standing behind Miller's huddled moaning form. Illya shot one guard, and Gaby shot the other with her newly-acquired weapon. Both dropped dead before they could fire a single shot.

Together, Illya and Gaby knelt beside Miller, Gaby wiping the tear tracks off her face in annoyance. Illya forced Miller into a sitting position, watching him breathe an endless stream of pained curses.

"Nice work," Gaby commented lightly. "He's alive."

"Yes," Illya spat distastefully. "Fortunately for him, that's how Waverly wants it."

 **…**

"Impressive," Napoleon commented lightly. "So you called Waverly for an extraction team and that was that, huh?"

"Yes," Illya nodded as the bathroom door opened and Gaby walked out, hot steam swirling behind her. She unwrapped the towel from her hair and began drying it vigorously.

"Did you tell him how it went?"

"I told him about the mission, yes."

"But not about the handcuffs!" Solo interjected. Illya rolled his eyes and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a little more force than necessary. They heard the shower head sputter and then spray.

"You're going to tell me, right?" Solo asked Gaby eagerly.

"Of course," she laughed. She tossed her towel near the bathroom door, and then crossed to the hotel room's cart of drinks. "It was really my fault, so I should be the one to explain."

"I just have to know, who handcuffed you with magician's handcuffs? It's such a strange thing to have."

"Not for a magician." Gaby crossed over to Napoleon with two drink glasses, and handed one to him before sitting down on the couch with the other.

"You're saying a magician handcuffed you two?" Solo laughed.

"Yes, something Illya was very perturbed about. You see, after we finished the mission, it was so nice out that I insisted on walking back to the hotel. And of course, there was all the usual nightlife on the street."

"Like street magicians."

"Exactly. And there was one performing, and I _made_ Illya go and look. And of course he picks us to be his volunteers from the audience. Everybody was watching us so expectantly, and the magician just looked so excited, I couldn't say no. So we went up there, and he- What?" Gaby asked suddenly. Napoleon was frowning intently at his glass of clear liquid. "What's the matter?"

"It's water," he said, looking at her accusingly.

"You're sick," she responded evenly.

"But-"

"Anyway," she pressed on. "We went up there, and the magician handcuffs us together. He tells the audience he will free us, and says this loud, showy magic spell. And then…"

"And then?" Solo prompted quickly.

"And then he can't get them off."

"What?!"

"Turns out, he was a very amateur street magician. This was apparently his first night performing." Gaby grinned as Solo predictably proceeded to find her story terribly amusing.

"What rotten luck!" he managed hoarsely.

"Oh, that was only the beginning of our rotten luck. Because I then forced Illya to walk through the park with me, thinking it would be lovely and romantic. And it was! Up until the sprinklers turned on."

"No!" Napoleon shouted joyously.

"Oh, yes. So we had to run to the nearest exit, and then had to walk the remaining five blocks while soaking wet and handcuffed by a failed street magician." Solo was now doubled over in his seat, alternatively laughing and coughing, apparently very much enjoying the mental image.

"I wish I was there to see that. Except I also don't, because I could've gotten the cuffs off of you, and I really, really enjoyed you two showing up at my door in magician's handcuffs."

"I figured you would," Gaby acknowledged, grinning. Her smile faded ever so slightly as she glanced at the bathroom door. "Illya probably hates me right now, though." She was only half joking. Solo noticed.

"Nah, he doesn't." Gaby turned to find Solo smiling at her encouragingly. "I know he hates that street magician, though. I am honestly _very_ surprised he didn't kill him on the spot."

"Yes, Illya was very good at not killing people today," she laughed.

"Ah, well." Solo shrugged. "There's always tomorrow."


End file.
